Hold Back The Night
by Nine Bright Shiners
Summary: The door of the classroom swings open. It's her. Her eyes don't leave his as she shuts the door behind her and advances on him. He sets his pencil on the desk and turns his chair to face her, his face giving nothing away. Story inspired by my 'Katniss/Haymitch AU Come Along' music video.


_A/N: This story is based on my AU Haymitch/Katniss music video, 'Come Along', and is inspired by Woody and Jennifer's characters in_ The Edge of Seventeen _and_ The Beaver, _respectively. Woody's character is a history teacher, Max Bruner – whose sarcasm nonetheless conceals a kind, caring nature, while Jennifer's character is an eighteen-year-old high school student called Norah, popular, intelligent and kind, with top grades and a place on the cheerleader team, secretly grieving for the brother she lost a few years ago._

 _In my video he goes to her after he gets her note, but I wanted to explore the scenario in a more realistic, in-depth way._

 _The first car scene is partly inspired by Jen's film_ House at the End of the Street. _I also couldn't resist including a cameo from the main character in_ The Edge of Seventeen, _played by Hailee Steinfeld_.

 _While I was writing the story I listened a lot to 'Coles Corner' by Richard Hawley, inspiring the title of this story. The other song quoted in this story is 'Tonight', by the same artist._

 _I also made a second Haymitch/Katniss video to a different one of Hawley's songs, 'Open Up Your Door', available on my YouTube channel, Vogue Elf._

 _I hope you enjoy the story._

* * *

 **Hold Back The Night**

The corridors are silent, the building almost empty. He picks up his pencil to mark the topmost paper on his desk, forcing himself to focus every time his attention wanes. He hears the main door open and close in the corridor, followed by rapid footsteps, and gives up all pretence of marking.

The door of the classroom swings open. It's her. Her eyes don't leave his as she shuts the door behind her and advances on him. He sets his pencil on the desk and turns his chair to face her, his face giving nothing away.

She stops in front of his desk, staring down at him. Her knuckles are white on her bag strap where it digs into her shoulder.

'You didn't come to meet me. But you're still here. Why?'

He looks at her, unimpressed. 'Why do you think?'

She's silent, her lips tight. He can sense her anger – and her humiliation at him turning her down.

Yesterday afternoon, collecting a book for her art teacher, she'd slipped him a note, asking him to meet her at the back school gate today, an hour after final period. She'd been dressed for cheerleader practice, and her eyes had held his with a cool stare all the while.

He leans back into his chair. 'How old are you, Miss Ross?'

She frowns, not sure if this is a trick question or not. 'Eighteen since last September.'

'Old enough to know better.'

Her lips twitch. She's silent, considering. Then her face hardens. 'All right. Fine. You win. I won't bother you again.' She walks out, her head held high, her steps quick with slighted pride.

The door closes behind her. It's for the best, he tells himself. But then why does he feel an urge to call her back – to ask why she did this. She's been offered a place at one of the best art colleges in the state, he knows – yet she was willing to risk it all for something she must have known was painfully unlikely. Why?

The unwelcome thought that it might all be a hoax, a practical joke, creeps into his mind. But he can't quite believe it is. Her text seemed too candid, too genuine to be a hoax.

He can remember it without having to pull out his phone.

 _I saw you outside school a few weeks ago. You didn't see me. It was eight o'clock on a Friday night and you were sitting in an empty café, alone. I wanted to go to you. To tell you you shouldn't have to be alone._

He should have deleted the text as soon as he got it. But somehow he couldn't. He still can't.

When he'd first read it his initial reaction had been humiliation – was he really that pathetic? Could people see his loneliness while they looked at him through a café window? Then he scoffed: of course; what else would anyone assume of someone sitting alone in an empty café at night? But he'd thought he hid his loneliness better than that; and his embarrassment had rapidly sharpened into intense annoyance. What right did she have to judge him?

Later, once he'd been able to think about it all more calmly, he'd felt intrigued. Why was she writing to him? Why did she feel drawn to him? He found himself wondering what would have happened if she had approached him that night after all.

Some part of him that he didn't like to acknowledge was flattered by the attention. She's the brightest student in her year – the one set to deliver the valedictorian address – brilliant, popular, and stunningly attractive – and she'd sought him out.

But it can never happen. She's his student. A high school student, even if she's already eighteen, and only three weeks away from graduating.

Suddenly the whole thing seems so ridiculous that he nearly laughs. He'd never imagined something like this happening to him, to be put in this situation. It still doesn't quite feel real. But then, it might as well not be. She'd said she'd leave him alone; in three weeks she'll have left the school for good and it'll be as if all this never happened.

…

There's no sitting room on the bus so she stands, swaying, in the aisle, her feet planted firmly. Her face feels hot – she's still too angry to cry. Angry with him, but even more angry with herself. How could she have been so stupid? Of course he wasn't going to meet her. She should never have given him the note – she should never have sent that text. Why she'd done it, she can't explain – except that she'd felt compelled to.

Seeing him in the café – she'd been so drawn to him, more than she'd ever felt drawn to anyone in her life. For days afterwards she'd felt herself recalling the image of him sitting there, an open book on the table before him – his eyes staring into nothingness.

In that instant she'd felt a jolt of recognition, so strong it was like a blow. She'd known at once that here was someone who understood what it felt like to be alone in mid-conversation, surrounded by laughter and friends.

He'd been her teacher the year before and she'd liked him. He was tough but fair, and his bitingly dry sense of humour had won her respect. But she'd never thought of him beyond that, and after her class had changed she'd barely seen him apart from the odd glimpse around campus.

After seeing him in the café she'd found herself keeping an eye out for him, even making unnecessary trips down the corridor outside his classroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, to understand the lonely figure whose image wouldn't leave her mind. Snippets of campus gossip came back to her; he was in his early forties, divorced, no children. She wondered what that must be like, to have shared a life with someone, then having the relationship fall apart. Whenever she saw him he always wore the same half-serious, half-cynical expression, but she felt sure she sensed something beneath that – vulnerability, isolation, even in the rush of the two o'clock bell.

And so she'd sent him the text, and then, a few days later, slipped him a note asking him to meet her. The logical part of her mind told her it was a bad idea; she's still a student at the school he works at, even if he's not actually her teacher any more. If she wants the slightest chance of things succeeding, she ought to wait until after graduation. But the thought of him, her need to speak to him – properly, somewhere away from school – had become so powerful to her, such a constant presence in her mind, that she couldn't wait another day. She was legally an adult. Why should she wait a moment longer?

So she'd thrown caution to the wind – and been rejected outright. Her mouth twists bitterly, her hand tightening on the handrail. What an idiot she'd been. How could she ever have imagined he might welcome her attention? Her eyes burn as she remembers his dispassionate voice, the casual way he leaned back in his chair. She shoves the feeling away; she won't waste another thought on him. It's unlikely they'll see each other around the campus, since she never needs to go along his corridor, and in three weeks she'll be gone.

…

That week the seniors have their finals and he's kept busy filling in for teachers who're acting as invigilators for the exams. He has to cross the campus multiple times a day, going from class to class, when usually he stays put in his classroom. Despite all this movement, he never sees Norah.

He's doing his best to put the whole thing behind him. But during his lunch break when he's reading, he finds himself seeing the words of her text message instead of the novel in front of him, and the memory of her standing across from him, lips tight with anger, grips him.

Whenever the door to his classroom opens unexpectedly a jolt of adrenaline spikes his heart and he's sure it's her. But it never is.

…

One lunch break one of his students barges into his classroom while he's enjoying a rare moment of solitude, pulls a chair over to the whiteboard and plonks her feet on his desk. Her name is Nadine, an odd girl whose only friend has started dating her brother, to her immense disapproval, so she's decided to come to him to complain about the woes of teenage life. He's not even trying to look sympathetic as he sharpens pencils in his electric sharpening machine in an attempt to drown out her tirade of complaints.

He's just given up on this tactic when there's a knock at the door.

'Come in,' he calls. The door opens and Norah steps inside.

When she sees Nadine she stops stock-still, her eyes flicking first to Nadine's sneakers on his desk, then to him, her eyes narrowing.

There's a perceptible chill in the room. Nadine looks from Norah to him, her eyes bugging with bewilderment. Awkwardly, she swings her legs to the floor.

Stiff as a board, Norah walks to him and hands him a book.

'Miss Boyd asked me to give this back to you.'

He takes it. She stares at him evenly and he's aware of a strange feeling nagging him; almost like guilt.

Then she turns and stalks out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

At once Nadine turns to him with a moderately scandalised look. 'What was up with _her?'_

He shakes his head and swiftly changes the subject.

It's not until Nadine is gone that he realises something disconcerting. He's begun to think of Norah as a person, not just a student. With Nadine, no matter how often she soliloquises her thoughts and problems, he's always conscious she's a student. As with his other students – and many of his fellow teachers – it's like the idea of Nadine begins when she walks onto the campus, and ends when she leaves it.

But with Norah it's different. Ever since he got her text he's started thinking of her as a fully formed individual, with thoughts and feelings, motivations and desires – an individual he wants to get to know better, to understand.

…

The exams are over and the senior students disappear. The last week of term drags by. Even though he knows Norah is gone, he can't quite shake the expectation that she'll come marching into his classroom again, demanding to talk to him.

But he knows it won't happen. He hurt her when he rejected her – she'll never want to see him again. Whenever he thinks about that conversation – too often for his liking – he feels a pang of regret. Now that she's left the school for good, it's easier to imagine different ways the conversation could have gone. He could have been kinder – less harsh. But at the time there hadn't seemed to be any other way he could have acted.

At last term ends and he's left facing an empty six weeks. No plans. Few friends.

He spends the first few days of the holiday at home, reading, or going for walks. One afternoon he heads into town to go to the local museum, where there's an exhibition on that caught his eye. The day begins sunny and warm – but when he emerges into the street in the evening the sky is dark with clouds. Two minutes into his drive home the clouds break. There are roadworks on the main road so he takes a less-used road, hoping to save time. He sees a figure hurrying ahead of him, on foot. A young woman. She glances over her shoulder as she spots his headlights – and he inhales sharply in surprise.

It's her. The rain is pouring down and she's already soaked to the skin, pitifully unprepared for the downpour in her thin cardigan and jeans. She's hunched over something, trying to protect it from the rain.

He slows the car.

She walks faster.

Clever girl, he thinks.

The car draws alongside her and she glances through the window, her face tight, edgy. It takes a moment for her to recognise him behind the rain-streaked glass. When she does she stops stock-still. Surprise quickly changes to suspicion and her arms tighten around her bag.

He stops the car and rolls down the passenger window.

'Where are you headed? I'll give you a lift.'

'I thought you didn't want anything to do with me.'

'I'd do the same for anyone. And – you're not my student anymore.'

She thinks it over. 'All right.' She pulls open the door and climbs inside. Rain sleets in, then stops as she shuts the door and rolls up the window. He can feel the chill of her body beside him. As the car starts moving he reaches forward and turns up the heating. She wrestles herself out of her cardigan, careful to keep to her side of the car, and tucks the sodden garment by her feet, followed by the bag, which she lays down carefully.

She sees his glance. 'It's my camera.' Her brow knits. 'I just hope the rain didn't get to it.'

He nods, looks back at the road. 'Where am I taking you?'

She's silent. Then she sighs. 'Elmwood Drive. Do I need to tell you how to get there?'

'Elmwood Drive – there's an old fire station nearby, right?'

She looks surprised. 'Yeah.'

'I know it.'

She looks like she's not sure how she feels about him knowing where she lives. But then she shrugs and settles back into her seat, no doubt reasoning that he could easily look up her address on the school system any time he likes, so it makes no difference. He finds himself wondering if she knows where he lives, but doesn't quite dare ask.

The glove compartment is open and her eye is caught by his CD collection. She starts rifling through the cases, taking them out one by one, turning them over to scan the song lists. Suddenly she smiles. 'This is one of my favourite albums.'

He glances at the album – _Coles Corner_ by Richard Hawley – then looks at her, unable to keep the scepticism from his face. She stares back at him, challenging him to doubt her.

He speaks the lines like he's reading from a book. '"The traffic of life is flowing/Out over the rivers and on into dark".'

She seems to hesitate, a gleam in her eyes. Then she starts to sing, her voice sweet and strong. '"Maybe there's someone waiting for me/With a smile and a flower in her hair".' She stares at him, her face slightly flushed.

He doesn't answer at once. 'Impressive. But you missed out two lines.'

Perhaps the song had been a bad idea to quote; she'd turned the lyrics into an argument in her favour, and he can't help smiling at her cunning.

He clears his throat. 'You've got a good voice.'

She smiles back, pleased. 'Thanks.'

They drive in silence for a few minutes – and he's surprised by how comfortable it feels to just sit there with her, neither of them speaking. The rain stops and the sky clears up. When they cross a bridge the river sparkles below them.

'You must have wondered why I sent you that message. Gave you the note.'

His shoulders tense. He looks straight ahead, saying nothing.

'It's like I said in the text. When I saw you that night… I know what it's like to be alone. And I thought … if we both felt alone, we could at least be alone together.'

He exhales slowly, aware of the hard beat of his heart.

She turns to him, her gaze serious. 'I want you to know – I understand why you turned me down. The risks I was asking you to take. I should have waited.' She's quiet. Out of the corner of his eye he can see her hands turning in her lap.

'But things are different now.' Her voice is soft, low. 'Won't you give it a try? Like you said, I'm not your student anymore.'

He doesn't answer at once. He must have known she'd ask him this, must have known it as he slowed down his car after recognising her.

She glances at him. 'You don't have to answer right away.' She lets out a long breath and rolls down her window.

They don't talk until he reaches her road and stops the car.

She gathers her coat and bag and turns to him. 'Thanks for the ride. Let me know – if you decide the answer is yes.'

She opens the door and gets out. With one last look at him she starts walking away.

His low voice carries through the open passenger window. 'All right.'

She stops. Slowly she turns back.

'Meet me at the café by the second-hand bookstore. Sunday, 3p.m.'

There's a glint in her eyes, a hint of mockery in the set of her lips. He can guess what she's thinking: a public place on a weekend afternoon – he's following the online dating rules by the book. Of course, if she'd wanted to make a move on him she would have done it in the car.

He realises he's holding his breath.

'Ok,' she says. 'I'll see you then.'

He nods, his expression unchanging, hiding the relief that washes through him. He'll see her again, at least one more time.

She gives him a long look before she walks away.

…

Over the next few days she plays their upcoming meeting – their date – over and over in her head. As she takes walks along her favourite routes for taking photographs, she imagines the obstacles he might list to their taking it any further. 'You should see someone your own age. I'm more than twice as old as you.'

'So?' she imagines herself answering. 'That means you'll have a lot to teach me. Isn't that what men want?'

Immediately she pulls a face, half in amusement, half in self-rebuke. As if she'd ever dare say something so flippant – or clichéd – to him.

Then she grins, imagining his reaction. He probably wouldn't even bother rebuking her out loud; one sceptically raised eyebrow would be enough to convey how unimpressed he was.

But in seriousness, that kind of remark would be counter to the way she intends things to go. She wants him to forget the age gap, to concentrate on her as an individual – not so different from himself.

She still can't quite believe he's agreed to meet her. She feels a mix of wariness and excitement. Wariness because she doesn't quite trust that he'll keep his word and meet her; and excitement because she hopes he will.

…

When she arrives, he's sitting at a table at the back of the room _._ He glances up as she walks in and for a moment she wants to turn on her heel and leave because all of a sudden she's nervous. Which is ridiculous, because she's the one who set this whole thing into motion. She wants this – doesn't she?

A quick glance around ascertains that there's nobody else here she knows; she feels a little better. Ignoring the tightness in her stomach she makes her way through the tables until she reaches him.

'Hi.'

He looks up at her. 'Hi.' There's a faint smile on his lips. Encouraged by this small sign she shrugs off her jacket and sits down opposite him.

There's a pause. He clears his throat. 'Did the photos develop ok?'

She frowns, uncertain what he's referring to. Then she remembers. 'Yes.' She smiles. 'My camera's fine. The rain didn't get to it.'

He nods. 'Good.'

She hesitates. 'I actually have them with me now, if you want to see them? I finished developing them at the Arts Centre this morning.'

There's a wary look in his eyes, but it's outweighed by curiosity. He nods once and she reaches down to retrieve her bag. After a brief rummage, she pulls out a black plastic folder and puts it on the table between them, opening it to the first page.

The photographs are a mixture of landscapes and portraits. There are people in all of them, never looking directly at the camera. They're caught in mid-laughter, or in mid-conversation, or sitting in silence, oblivious to the camera pointed their way.

He turns the pages with care, looking at each photograph intently. She sits very still, leaning back in her chair so her shadow doesn't fall across the pages. She longs to know his opinion and yet dreads the instant when he looks up. She doesn't usually show her work to other people. When he's reached the end he raises his head, his expression serious. 'I think the Lawson Institute will be gaining a talented new addition.'

She feels her face heat, a glow of pride spreading through her. A smile tugs at her lips. 'Thank you.'

He leans back, resting his arms on the table. 'Though you would have done well at history, too. You were one of my best students.' The corner of his mouth lifts. 'I guess every other teacher's said the same thing to you.'

She laughs, shaking her head. 'Not my chemistry teacher. I'll be lucky if I scraped a C on that last paper.'

The conversation flows more easily than either of them was expecting. She asks about a book she saw him reading one lunch break – a historical thriller – and he looks surprised and somewhat impressed that she remembers the title.

When he looks away to catch the waitress's attention, she takes the opportunity to scan his appearance, as she didn't quite dare to while he was watching her. He's wearing a dark blue shirt, the sleeves rolled back to the elbow. His hands and forearms have a slight tan, contrasting with the paleness of his fingernails. When he looks at her again she's struck by how blue his eyes are, sharp but kind.

They talk about books for a while, and she's proud when she manages to make him laugh, liking the way his eyes glint with humour.

Later he asks her about her favourite artists and she talks about how she once went to see an Edward Hopper exhibition. As she speaks, there's a confession on the tip of her tongue – but she holds it back, worried it might be too soon. When she'd seen him sitting alone in the café all those weeks ago, she's been reminded instantly of a painting by Hopper, 'Automat'; the lonely figure seated under the electric lights, the sense that he was out of time, and her need to know what his story was.

…

She's serious and warm at the same time. He can't help being struck by how mature she is. She has a quiet confidence, a sense of assurance that most of her peers lack.

He can sense how she wants this interaction to go well, how she's willing to invest herself in it, and he's both touched and troubled, though he manages to conceal it.

As she turns to the window to point something out he finds his eyes drawn to the curve of her cheeks, the slant of her eyes as she smiles. Then her gaze flashes to his, and after a second too long he lowers his eyes.

It's so easy to like her. He hasn't felt so much curiosity about someone in months, maybe even years. But for that very reason he feels himself withdraw inwards, cautious. Since his divorce he's dated a few woman – all of them much closer to his age than Norah is – but every one of those relationships fizzled out after only a few weeks. Why should this be any different?

She tells him about her favourite artistic medium: street art, and how she once narrowly escaped being arrested when spray-painting an old warehouse a couple of years ago. He laughs, intrigued and surprised; he'd never imagined that Norah Ross, the girl who could seemingly do no wrong – well, he amends, until she'd sent him that text message – could ever have come close to tangling with the police. He finds himself revising his image of her – and wanting to get to know her better.

When the waitress comes over with the check he's surprised to discover that two hours have flown by.

Norah reaches for her bag and starts to extract her purse.

He pulls the check towards him. 'Thanks. But I'm paying.'

'You're sure? On a history teacher's salary?'

He raises a warning eyebrow and she smiles at him, settling back into her chair.

A different waitress comes back to collect the money and as she picks up the money tray she glances between them, her gaze curious, judging, then rapidly walks away.

His face and neck heat up. He keeps his eyes lowered, looking unseeingly at the wet imprint from his coffee cup on the table. He can feel Norah's silence as she waits for him to speak.

'That kind of look.' His voice is low, barely audible. He looks at her steadily, impassive. 'That's what you'll get if you pursue this. Even from people who don't know us from school.'

Her chin lifts. She holds his eyes with hers. 'I don't care.'

Without breaking eye contact, her hand slides across the table and softly covers his. Her skin is warm and smooth. He can't help sucking in a breath – it's been so long since he's experienced contact like this. He can't remember when he last felt so trusted, so understood.

He wants so badly to turn his hand over and link his fingers with hers – but he doesn't.

Neither does he move his hand away.

Unable to help himself he looks back into her eyes. Her gaze is tentative, warm.

'Want to go for a walk?' she asks softly.

For a long moment he doesn't react. Then, gently, he moves his hand away – and she quickly puts her hand back in her lap, her head bowing to hide her face.

'I'm sorry, but that wouldn't be a good idea.' He feels so torn. On one hand he's disgusted with himself – why did he ask her to meet him here only to turn her down again? What had he expected to happen?

Part of him fiercely longs to take her up on the offer, to walk out of that door with her, to hear what she has to say to him, to see what might happen.

But he's convinced it would only end badly. He should never have suggested this meeting. Better to end it here, now. Once and for all.

She stands abruptly, tucking the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her voice is flat. 'Guess I'll see you at the graduation ceremony.'

He meets her eyes. 'Yeah.'

She nods stiffly and walks out. He watches through the window as she walks rapidly past the café, her gaze locked ahead of her, her chin held high. Through the glass he imagines he can still feel the barely repressed anger and humiliation radiating from her as she'd stood up to go.

…

A few days later he's making his way towards the parking lot, having said goodbye to his two classes of that year at their graduation, when two people step into his path and he's forced to an abrupt halt.

It's the art teacher, Jean Boyd. 'So sorry, Max, I didn't see you there.' She smiles proudly, gesturing at the student next to her. 'Wasn't Norah's speech fantastic?'

Norah looks at him silently, her expression carefully disinterested.

He nods, his mouth suddenly dry. 'It was.'

Her eyes narrow a fraction. She doesn't smile.

Jean Boyd doesn't seem to notice. 'I got an email from the Lawson Institute yesterday, saying how thrilled they were she'd got in. A full scholarship.'

Norah's gaze is now fixed to the ground. Maybe she doesn't like him knowing she's on a scholarship. Maybe she thinks he'll look down on her – but it's the opposite.

'Congratulations. That's wonderful.'

The hardness in her expression doesn't flicker. 'Thanks.'

'There's the principal now,' says Jean. 'We'd better grab him before he vanishes again. See you next term, Max. Have a good summer.'

'You too,' he says, but they're already walking away from him, the art teacher and her prize student.

…

Snow is falling, and warmly-clothed figures weave back and forth on the ice rink as he walks along the sidewalk, heading for his car. He's just about to cross the street when a voice calls his name.

'Hey! Mr Bruner!'

He turns to see an eighteen-year-old girl arm in arm with a boy of the same age. After a second he recognises them from his class of two years ago. Standing beside them, her face frozen, is Norah.

A chill flashes through his blood, followed by a rush of warmth. It takes an effort to tear his eyes away from her face and smile at the other two, who wave him over.

He makes his way to them slowly, carefully not quite looking at Norah – not yet.

'Ellen – Jared. Good to see you.'

Ellen reaches out to shake his hand, and Jared follows suit. They both glance at Norah when she doesn't. He shakes their hands and they grin at him.

'So the new lot haven't killed you yet,' says Ellen with a laugh.

'No,' he agrees. 'How's college?'

They tell him about their courses and their teachers. Neither of them is taking history – though they both claim they miss it. He's fairly sure they're just saying this to flatter him, and smiles good-naturedly.

Then there's a pause.

'Still reading Philip Kerr?'

His eyes dart to Norah's and she stares back at him, waiting for him to answer her question.

'Not for a few months,' he says after a second. 'At the moment I'm halfway through a biography about Hopper.'

'The artist? Bet you'd read that, right, Norah?' says Ellen.

Norah doesn't answer at once, her eyes still on his, a strange glint in them, impossible to read. 'Yeah. I probably would.'

'Your old art teacher,' he ventures, '– Jean Boyd, mentioned you had an exhibition at your college a couple weeks ago. She says it went well.'

She stares back at him, like she's trying to work out what's behind his words. 'I just had two paintings up. But yes, it went well.'

He nods. As he looks at her he's struck by the thought that this could so easily be the moment where it's confirmed that she's put him behind her. But something in her expression tells him she hasn't.

Ellen and Jared shift their feet, ready to leave.

'I'll let you go,' he says quickly, turning to them. 'Good to see you. Look after yourselves.'

They say goodbye and start walking away, glancing over their shoulder at Norah to see if she's coming.

She looks at him. 'Goodbye.'

Part of him had hoped she might make some excuse to her friends, stay to talk with him a while.

He nods, his eyes on hers. 'Goodbye.'

He watches as she walks away, jogging to catch up with the other two. After a few seconds she glances back at him, then faces forward. He waits until she's out of sight before slowly walking back to his car.

Over the rest of the evening he checks his phone eight times, but there are no new messages. Did she delete his number? It would be unsurprising if she had, considering how angry she'd been with him after their meeting in the café.

He still has her number – still has her text on his phone, despite all his thoughts about deleting it. If he wants to hear from her this badly he should just text her himself.

But he doesn't. Somehow he's sure that she has his number, and she's choosing not to contact him. And he respects that choice. She hadn't wanted to stay and talk to him earlier. And now she hasn't contacted him. It's time to let her move on – time for him to move on.

…

The spring semester flies by as she rushes between seminars and lectures, spending all her spare time painting, developing photographs, and seeing friends.

One evening she's sitting in a student bar with some classmates, when a familiar song starts playing over the radio, and her heart stops.

 _Oh tonight, oh tonight, oh tonight, I got it real bad._

She stares down into her empty glass, feeling a powerful melancholy and longing steal over her.

Nothing could have prepared her for seeing him that evening in December, when she'd been home for Christmas. As they'd talked, she'd sensed that he'd been thinking about her since she'd left town, and that if she asked him to meet her, he'd say yes.

As she'd walked away, she'd fully intended to text him. She still has his number even after everything. But she hadn't. With each minute that went by she felt less and less sure that he would welcome a message from her. She hadn't been able to face the thought of writing to him and never hearing back. So she hadn't written to him at all.

For several days after seeing him she'd carried around the secret hope that he still had her number – that he might contact her. But after a week with no texts, no calls, she gave up. It was all over and done with – had been for months. The sooner she forgot about him, the better.

But somehow she hadn't been able to. Now, months later, she still thinks of him at least once a day, wondering if it's too late to text him.

 _Ah the restlessness that's in me, don't do me any good_

 _I know I really should stay home tonight, but I don't think that I could_

She closes her eyes, the song seeming to penetrate to her core, and feels tears start to gather. It's stupid to feel this way about him. She should have forgotten him months ago. It's not like anything ever happened between them.

…

Her exams over, she heads home for the vacation. She settles back into her old routines quickly. Her college friends complain about how much their parents constrain their freedom, but she doesn't have this problem. She's always been independent; she had to be, thanks to her mother's illness. The week after her return she goes back to her old vacation job as a waitress, where she's worked weekends since she turned sixteen.

One Friday afternoon she's there working, in the café. It's a small place, belonging to a private art museum on the outskirts of the town. The café is adjoined to an old house which displays the previous owner's paintings and puts on small exhibitions twice a year. Today it's drizzling, and there aren't many visitors.

She's in the kitchen, washing up when Tiffany, her fellow waitress, comes in, turns a corner too fast and knocks down a shelfful of metal pots.

' _Shit!_ I'd better clear this up right away. I saw a customer come in just now. He went to the back. Will you go and take his order?'

'Sure.' She dries her hands, checks she has her notepad and pencil, and heads into the café. It's half-empty. At a table near the back of the room sits a man, alone.

She stops mid-step, heart crashing against her ribs. It's him.

A second later he looks up, and his face stills. She can tell at once that he had no idea she works here.

It's so much like their chance meeting before Christmas that she feels a lurch of déjà vu.

Mastering herself, she walks over to him. Her voice is low, neutral. 'Hey.'

'Hey.' He looks up at her, his expression wary – yet curious. He hesitates. 'I haven't been here in years. I didn't know you worked here. If you want, I'll go.' His eyes hold hers, sincere.

Slowly, she shakes her head. 'It's fine.' He doesn't remember but he'd come here once three years ago while she'd had a shift, the summer before he took her history class. There'd been a woman with him. A girlfriend, she'd presumed. He hadn't recognised her because he wasn't her teacher yet, but she'd recognised him from around school.

She's aware of her eyes moving over his face, refamiliarising herself with his features. He looks much the same as before. Perhaps a bit more tired.

She looks away quickly, taking out her notepad and clearing her throat. 'Can I take your order?' She's fairly certain she knows what he'll ask for – a double espresso like he had on their date a year ago, but she doesn't want to let him know she remembers.

'A double espresso.'

With a tiny smile she writes it down. 'Coming right up.' Giving him one last quick look she heads back to the kitchen, feeling his eyes watching her go.

Within two minutes she's prepared the coffee and put it on a tray. She stands still for a moment, closing her eyes. It would be so simple to ask Tiffany to take the drink to him. But if she gets someone else to do it for her, he'll take it to mean she doesn't want to see him.

 _Does_ she want to see him? Yes, she admits to herself, she does. It's hard to talk to him. But it would be worse to miss this opportunity.

She goes back into the café and sets down the tray in front of him. He picks up the cup with a small smile.

'Thanks.'

'No problem.' She finds herself reluctant to leave. 'No book?'

A frown deepens the line between his brows. After a second he laughs. 'No, I finished one this morning. I don't like to start new books without a break of a day or two.'

She smiles. 'I'm the same with paintings.'

He smiles back at her. She feels her heart give a small lurch.

'Have you worked here long?'

'Almost four years. I worked weekends during high school. Now I do three or four days a week during vacations. Mainly weekdays; the younger waitresses tend to get stuck with the weekend shifts.'

'Makes sense,' he says wryly. 'How's college?'

She tells him a bit about her classes and her teachers. There are so many questions she wants to ask him – but she sticks to the most casual; how's school (the same as always), does he have plans for the vacation (just marking and a one week trip to Philadelphia to visit family). It's easier to talk to him than she expected and she's moved by how sincere his interest in her answers is.

A group of six file into the nearly-empty café, seeming to fill the room with their chatter and laughter.

She straightens up. 'Well, I'd better go.'

For the next ten minutes she's kept busy taking orders and making coffees in the kitchen. When she comes back out, he's gone and she feels a stab of disappointment.

The moment she's finished with the new customers she goes to his table, before Tiffany can get to it. There's a note sticking out from beneath his coffee cup. Heart beating fast, she pulls it out, then walks rapidly to the staff bathroom to read it in privacy, forgetting to clear away his cup or take the money he'd left.

 _I still think about how that walk might have gone. If you feel the same way, meet me at the split beech tree in Eastlake Park, Sunday, 4 p.m._

…

By Sunday afternoon the weather has cleared up. When she comes in sight of the old beech tree she sees him standing beneath the branches. He watches her as she comes closer, stopping a few feet away from him.

He smiles, and she feels some of her nervousness evaporate. 'You came.'

She smiles back slowly. 'So did you.'

He laughs softly, glancing down for a second.

'What made you choose this place?'

He looks at her cautiously. 'Your photos. You told me you took them here.' He looks away, shy. 'This isn't the first time I've come here. That was in August, last year. Since then I usually come once a month or so, to clear my head.' He looks at her. 'And to think about you.'

She swallows, her eyes holding his.

'I wondered if this was the place you meant, when you asked me to take a walk with you.'

Her bare arms prickle at the words, and she imagines slipping her hand into his, pulling him along with her. Instead she asks quietly, 'Shall we take it now?'

He nods, and they start walking side by side. For half a minute neither of them talks.

'When I heard about your exhibition, back in November – I nearly went. I got in my car and drove until I was over the state border.'

She looks at him quickly, amazed. She'd had no idea.

He licks his lips, hesitating. 'But then I turned back. I was sure you wouldn't want to see me again. And I thought you deserved a fresh start – a completely fresh one. It would have been selfish of me to compromise that.'

She shakes her head, her smile slightly unhappy. 'That's what I told myself. A fresh start.' She pauses, remembering all those times she'd thought of him over the last year, no matter how hard she tried not to.

'I had no idea you'd be there, at the ice rink,' she goes on. She laughs as she remembers their meeting. 'I didn't shake your hand.'

He laughs, too. 'I remember.'

After a step she comes to a halt, and he stops too, turning to face her. She edges her hand forward, her fingers brushing his. 'Could I take your hand now?'

His eyes don't leave hers as he turns his hand, linking his fingers through hers. His palm is lightly calloused against hers, and she runs her thumb over his, feeling the smoothness of his thumbnail, the texture of his skin.

'I thought about staying,' she says, looking down at their linked hands. 'I thought about making an excuse to my friends – but I didn't know what I'd say to you. So I left.'

She looks up to find him watching her closely. 'When I saw you in the café…' she starts. 'You were the last person I expected to see. You had no idea I worked there, did you? Or you would never have gone there.'

A small smile tugs at his mouth. 'You're probably right. But I'm glad I did. Or I wouldn't have the chance to see you now.' He pauses, gathering his words, and she knows that this is what he came here to tell her, and her heart grows heavy with anticipation.

'Last summer, when you asked me to see how things between us could develop, I wasn't ready. I couldn't forget that you used to be my student. I couldn't ignore the age gap. I thought about every obstacle – all the reasons it couldn't work. But now – those things don't seem to matter like they used to.'

His eyes are bright and keen, and she feels a swell of emotion. She looks away, almost afraid of the way he's looking at her, because it's what she's been waiting for for almost a year.

'When you turned me down I was so angry,' she says softly. 'I was angry with you for not being willing to take the risk like I was. But then I realised how much more you were risking than I was, and I started to understand that you were right to say no.' She takes a quick breath. 'I told myself to move on, that I'd probably never see you again. But I couldn't stop thinking about you.' Finally she looks up. When she holds his gaze he doesn't look away.

'What happens now?' she asks. 'Do we start over? Or do we pick it up from the café when I showed you my photos, like the last year never happened?'

'But it did happen. Maybe it had to happen.' He smiles as he says it, half-laughing at himself.

But he's right, she thinks. The fact that they're here now after so long without properly seeing each other, means something.

Very gently, he reaches out and touches her face, his fingers warm against her cheek. He draws his fingers down to her chin, then lets his hand drop to his side again. She's disappointed and relieved at the same time. She'd thought he might kiss her – but she doesn't think she'd have been ready, not after such an emotional conversation.

'Can I take you to dinner?' he asks. 'My car's ten minutes away, so we could go anywhere you want. It's still early, but at least we'd be guaranteed a table.'

'All right. Let's go.' She puts her hand through his arm and together they walk back towards the park entrance.

…

The restaurant is small and busy enough for them to blend in, but not so crowded they can't hear each other speak. After a few minutes of shyness, any awkwardness gradually disappears and he finds himself opening up to her in a way he hasn't spoken to anyone in years. He briefly tells her about his short marriage which ended when he and his ex-wife realised they no longer had anything in common. She's now married to someone else, and has two young daughters, and he wishes her every happiness; though it took him a few years to be able to say that and mean it truthfully.

Norah listens in attentive silence, her grey eyes never leaving his. When he's finished, she tells him about her beloved brother, three years younger than her, who died in a car accident three and a half years ago. She tells him how her mother sank into deep depression, not letting anyone disturb her son's room, not noticing that her daughter was starting to slip out at night to paint violent, furious murals on abandoned buildings.

This time he's the one to reach across the table to take her hand, and neither of them lets go until the waiter comes to take away their plates.

The bill paid, they head outside. It's a warm summer evening and by mutual consent they head away from where his car is parked, wanting to stay outside a while longer. The breeze ruffles the edges of her summer dress, caressing her bare legs.

They head towards the river, where the spread of the willow trees dims the sounds of the traffic. As they walk along the dappled path she slips her hand into his, and he squeezes back gently, his thumb sliding over hers. They stop in the middle of the bridge, looking down into the water. The sky is slowly darkening, and they're alone as they watch their reflections ripple and mingle on the surface of the river.

The silence stretches out. Just as he starts to worry about what to say to break it, she hums a snatch of song very quietly, and he recognises the chorus of 'Coles Corner'. She turns to look at him, eyes glinting, and he laughs softly, shaking his head.

The song trails off. Before he quite knows what's happening, she's leaning towards him. He watches, motionless, as her face draws near, filling his vision. Her lips touch his, soft and warm and he closes his eyes. He feels a slight motion in the air as she draws back and he opens his eyes to find her watching him, lips slightly parted, waiting for his response. He doesn't have to think about it as he lifts a hand to her face and draws her mouth back to his, his other hand going to her waist, pulling her closer.

She kisses him back, leaning into him, one hand sliding up his chest to his shoulder, her other hand gently cupping his jaw. With each kiss she feels warmth unfolding through her, languorous and pleasurable.

When at last they pull away they're both slightly out of breath. His hand stays on her waist, and with his other hand he strokes her cheek, thumb tracing her cheekbone, brushing the corner of her mouth as she smiles.

'I'm glad you waited for me,' he says quietly.

They stay on the bridge until the sun starts to set.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review._

 _Make sure to check out lha1's brilliant AU Haymitch/Katniss stories, 'The Long Way Home', and the endlessly entertaining 'Wake Me Up Before You Go'._


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